take our wine and walk back into the living room to see Patrick and Tristan sitting together closely and watching their movie. Tristan has kicked his shoes off and has his feet up on the coffee table, and Patrick has done the same. I stand at the door and watch them in awe.
How has this happened? I did not expect my Friday night to turn out like this. He didn’t mention anything about coming over tonight. And here he is, hanging with my kids and not running for the hills.
Wonders never cease.
Harry’s door bangs open from upstairs, and I roll my eyes. God, this kid is a fucking drama queen. “Why is the internet not working?” he calls.
“I don’t know,” I snap. He’s really beginning to piss me off with all this stomping around.
“Reboot it,” Tristan calls.
“I didn’t ask you.” His bedroom door bangs shut again.
Patrick rolls his eyes at his brother’s dramatics.
I take a seat on the other couch and curl my legs up underneath me, but I’m not watching the movie; I’m watching these two together.
They’re talking and discussing things like long-lost friends, and I’m amazed at how well they’re getting on.
Harry appears again. “The damn internet keeps dropping out,” he yells.
“You’re a big boy,” Tristan says. “Go fix it.”
Harry glares at Tristan and takes off again.
Ten minutes later we hear slamming upstairs and Harry yelling in frustration.
“Harrison,” I call. “What are you doing up there?”
“This internet,” he cries. “It’s so crap I can’t believe it.” He marches down the stairs and checks the modem and walks into the living room. “I’ve had enough of this,” he cries. “It’s making me crazy.”
Tristan watches him with a smile.
“What . . . is . . . so . . . funny?” Harry sneers.
“Tick. Tock,” Tristan replies.
Harry’s eyes widen, and Tristan winks at him.
I look between the two of them; their eyes are locked.
Huh?
“What does that mean?” I frown.
“Nothing,” Harry snaps through gritted teeth. He marches upstairs and slams the door.
Tristan smiles into his wine and continues to watch the television, as if nothing has happened.
“What was that about?” I ask.
“I have no idea; the wizard has gone mad,” he mutters dryly.
It’s late. Harry and Patrick are in bed, and Tristan is talking to Fletcher in his room. They’ve been chatting for a while.
I creep up the hall and peer through the crack of the door. Tristan is lying on Fletcher’s bed, throwing a tennis ball up in the air and catching it as they speak.
Fletcher is sitting at his desk, on the computer.
“So where did you go then?” Tristan asks.
“Back to my friend’s house for a while.”
I frown. What are they talking about? I lean in closer so that I can hear.
“So . . . Fletch.” Tristan hesitates, as if choosing his words carefully. “You know how to put on a condom . . . right?”
What the fuck? How dare he ask that. Fletcher is nowhere near having sex.
“No, not really.” Fletcher sighs. “What if I fuck it up and do it wrong? Can it come off midway?”
My eyes widen in horror.
What?
“Yeah, it can, and it’s your responsibility to know this shit. Condoms are the boy’s job. You need to practice before you get there.”
I put my hand over my mouth. Oh my God.
My baby . . .
I quickly walk down the stairs. My ears . . . what the hell did I just hear?
I go to the kitchen sink and pour myself a glass of wine and chug it down.
I do it again.
I’m feeling overwhelmed and nervous and happy and terrified.
“Hey,” Tristan whispers from behind me. “There you are.”
I turn to him. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
I swallow the lump in my throat. “For being here. It means a lot.”
He leans in and tenderly kisses me. My eyes close at the feeling of his lips against mine.
We stare at each other in the semidarkened kitchen . . . and God, I want him.
I want all of him.
But this is wrong . . . this is Wade’s house.
“I have to take a shower,” I whisper.
“Okay.” He smiles and softly kisses me again. His kiss has just the right amount of suction, and I feel it between my legs. Tristan being here feels special.
Too special.
I push myself off him and step back, and without another word, I rush from the room.
Half an hour later, I stand under the water in my shower. Guilt is coursing through my veins.
It feels real.
And I know it can’t be, because he isn’t my forever man.
My forever man